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“Maybe,” I said with a noncommittal shrug. “Where is Master Roydon?” Goody Alsop said quietly. Her fetch drifted around the parlor as if she thought she might find him in the window-seat cushions or sitting atop the cupboard. “Out on business,” I said, drawing my shawl tighter. It was Susanna’s, and it smelled like burned sugar and chamomile, just as she did. “I heard he was at the Middle Temple Hall with Christopher Marlowe last night. Watching a play, by all accounts.” Catherine passed the box of comfits she’d brought to Goody Alsop. “Ordinary men can pine terribly for a lost child. I am not surprised that a wearh would find it especially difficult. They are possessive, after all.” Goody Alsop reached for something red and gelatinous. “Thank you, Catherine.” The women waited in sile
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